


The Angel Room: What Happens to a Seraph When You F*ck With the Timeline - Part 3

by CatherineinNB



Series: The Angel Room [25]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Vessels (Supernatural), Angels, Angels Without Vessels, Angst, Canon Compliant, Castiel (Supernatural) in Alternate Vessels, Chosen Lines, Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, Gen, Meta, Metafiction, Missing Jimmy Novak, Prayer, Season/Series 14, Season/Series 14 Spoilers, Sometimes there are no good options, Temporal Paradox, hard truths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 21:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20664134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherineinNB/pseuds/CatherineinNB
Summary: Ever wondered what happened in heaven when Sam and Dean messed with the timeline by bringing their father to the present? Yeah, Makael knows. She remembers. And this is how it went down.Author's Note: This all takes place during "Lebanon." We started in Heaven ... now we're checking in with the Novaks.





	The Angel Room: What Happens to a Seraph When You F*ck With the Timeline - Part 3

**Author's Note:**

> **_The Context:_**  
Eight-and-a-half months ago, seraph Makael, formerly of the Heavenly Choir, fled the _Supernatural _universe after Michael arrived from Apocalypse World.
> 
> Makael had always been good at keeping to herself. It’s why she survived the intra-angel conflicts after the Great Fall. So when Michael started tracking down angels soon after his arrival from Apocalypse World, Makael decided that it was time to find a new universe to call home. Using a modified version of the spell that, years ago, propelled the Winchesters into an alternate universe, Makael was ready to make a new life for herself in ours. A quiet life. A human life, much like the one she had lived after the Fall. 
> 
> Then she discovered  _ Supernatural _ .
> 
> She told herself it was boredom, it was curiosity, it was a way to keep herself apprised of events back home that prompted her to start pulling characters into our universe for interviews after each new episode of Season 14 aired. She styled herself a journalist. An interviewer. A fangirl.
> 
> But meeting the Winchesters and their extended family changed her.
> 
> Makael is no longer an angel who stays safely on the sidelines. She’s … changed. Trained, first with Ketch, and then with Castiel. She’s literally fought for the Winchesters. Used her research skills, her talent with magic, and her voice (which used to serenade God in the Throne Room) to help them.
> 
> After weeks of working with them side-by-side in the Bunker, a misunderstanding (what she would call a failure on her part) led to her return to the place where it all started, the place Sam dubbed  _ The Angel Room _ .
> 
> That was, until  _ something  _ happened, and she found herself sucked back into her own universe and into a timeline that makes fuck-all sense. Michael—their Michael, not the one who’s been kicking around in Dean’s head—ruling heaven as God? Nuh-uh: that ain’t gonna fly.
> 
> It’s up to Makael to save the timeline.

** _The Story:  
_ ** What a strange thing it is to simply  _ think  _ of the location where Makael wants to be—and to  _ be  _ there. A simple, powerful pull of her wings, a quick  _ look  _ ahead, and she’d pinpointed that, yes, what she’s looking for is in Pontiac, Illinois in this timeline—not in Sioux Falls—and then she is hovering in front of a house, just above the walkway, which is shoveled and swept neatly clean of all snow. 

Everything about the house is neat, she realizes. From its dove-grey paint, crisply accented with white and black on the decorative front trim (which might otherwise have been whimsical, but is somehow rendered … precise by the paint scheme), to the bright, gleaming silver numbers attached next to the front door, to the winter garden, tidied and put into order well before the snow flew.

What isn’t neat or tidy is the prayer that is currently spilling out from the second floor, third window from the left. Of course, no human ears can hear it, but it hits Makael like a freight train a split second after she arrives.

— _ have to bring him back, you have to. You HAVE to, do you hear me??? Mom’s beside herself, and the police aren’t paying attention and one of them even had the BALLS to—sorry, the, well, YOU KNOW, to suggest to Mom that he’d run off with someone. But he’d never do that, God, he’d NEVER GODDAMN DO THAT and—sorry, sorry. But please, please, PLEASE, just bring him back. _

It isn’t that angels can typically pick up prayers directed to God. Prayers generally have to be angel-directed for angels to pick them up, and it’s even better if you have the name of the angel you want to get in touch with. But this prayer is so  _ emphatic,  _ so  _ fervent _ , and it’s blaring out with such force that Makael actually drifts back a few feet to collect herself, her wings keeping her aloft. 

Then she makes herself slip purposefully inside the structure, passing through solid walls as if they are water. 

Makael learned pretty quickly after she Fell, vesselless, how to hide herself from humans. So when she curls gently into the small-ish bedroom, the young woman, who is sitting cross-legged on the mattress, doesn’t see her. The girl’s slender form is tense, and as Makael settles next to the window, she shuts her eyes fast and clasps her hands together, fingers intertwined so tightly that her knuckles whiten. Makael can see tears slipping down her face, spattering on the pale pink pajama top she’s wearing, as she starts her prayer again. But this time, she can hear the nearly-silent whisper that accompanies her prayers.

“Please, please, please.” Over and over. “Please keep him safe. Please bring him home.”

Makael finds herself studying the girl’s face. No makeup, not even the dark eyeliner she always seems to wear—on the show, at least. Her normally wild, tawny-blonde hair is straightened and sleek, and much shorter than Makael is used to seeing it. Her eyes are closed, but even though her prayers are fierce (and sightly profanity-laced), there is none of the hardness, the toughness Makael is accustomed to noticing. And now that she thinks about it, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen the girl wearing pink—let alone pink pajamas, with little rainbows splattered liberally all over the pants. 

Makael’s gaze moves away from the girl to examine the rest of the space, feeling a sudden creeping unease slipping over her. The walls are painted a soft, soothing blue. A tidy desk rests against the wall closest to the door, with books stacked neatly to one side. College books, about business administration. A poster of a singer named LP on the wall, next to a poster that features the scripture “Be still and know that I am God” over a serene black and white lake shot. Makael’s focus slides back to the bed. 

Fluffy white comforter. Fluffy white pillows. 

_ Teddy bear.  _

Shit.

For the first time since she’s escaped, Makael has time to think—really  _ think _ —about what she’s hoping to do. What she’s hoping to accomplish.

What it would mean for Claire Novak.  _ This  _ Claire Novak, not the hunter she’s watched on  _ Supernatural.  _ And she feels suddenly very ill.

Her line of thought is interrupted by a soft knock at Claire’s door.

“Claire, honey? Are you still awake? Can I come in?”

Claire is just as startled by the voice as Makael is, dashing the tears from her eyes and scrubbing her face rapidly, sniffing once, hard, before saying, “Yeah, sure, Mom. Come in.”

The door opens, and Makael watches as Amelia Novak slips into the small bedroom. She looks wan, and there are dark smudges under her eyes, but she’s  _ alive.  _

_ She’s alive. _

“Baby, what are you doing up so late?” Amelia slips onto Claire’s bed and gently upturns her face. “You should be sleeping. You have a paper due in a couple of days—”

“Like I’m really going to be writing a paper when Dad’s  _ missing _ , Mom,” says Claire, and then winces as the stricken look on her mother’s face. “Sorry, I’m sorry—I just can’t concentrate with everything that’s going on …”

“You know what the police said, honey. We can’t do anything until seventy-two hours have passed—”

“No,  _ they  _ can’t do anything.  _ We  _ can.  _ I  _ can. I should be out there, looking for him, Mom. I—”

“Where?” Amelia’s voice is suddenly harsh with unshed tears. “Where would you look for him, Claire? We’ve called everyone. All of his friends, all of his work associates, everyone we know from church—no one has seen him. No one has heard from him. And there’s no one matching his description in the area hospitals or … or anywhere else.” 

_ The morgue,  _ thinks Makael.  _ She means the morgue. Oh, God, she’s been calling morgues. _

“And I’m not going to let you go drive around goodness-knows-where looking for him. I know you’re not a child anymore. I _know_ you’re in college, Claire, but you’re still my baby girl, and with your Dad … gone right now, I need more than ever to make sure that you’re safe. That you’re not going off and doing anything reckless. _Or _tanking your grades. You know your dad would be incredibly disappointed if you flunked a course just because he wasn’t here for a couple of days, right?” She manages a wobbly smile, but doesn’t wait for Claire to answer. “Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to keep making those phone calls, and we’re going to find him. He’ll turn up. I just know he will. You’ll see, the police won’t even need to get involved. Okay?” There is a note of desperation in Amelia’s voice at the end. A deep-rooted _need _for Claire to agree. 

Which she does, her voice soft and more gentle than Makael has ever heard it sound before. 

“Okay, Mom.”

She even forces a little smile, and her mother catches it like a lifeline. She pulls her in for a tight hug. 

“That’s my girl. Now, get some sleep, Claire-bear.” 

Amelia picks up the teddy bear as she rises from the bed, looking down at it pensively, before pushing a smile into place—tight, forced, a  _ lie  _ with the muscles of her lips—and it’s so like Claire’s that Makael heart breaks. Then Amelia holds the bear out to Claire who, reluctantly, takes it. Amelia turns off the bedside light, which had been on when Makael had entered the room. She slips back into the hallway, shutting the door gently behind her. 

Claire sits silently in the sudden darkness, her head tilted down at the bear, her shoulders slumped. She waits for a count of twenty, listening to the sound of her mother’s light, retreating footsteps, then gently puts the bear back down next to her pillow. She closes her eyes, the sliver of light reflecting in them from the streetlight opposite the house extinguishing. This time, her prayer is completely silent. No whispered words accompanying them.

_ You have to help us, God. You have to bring him back.  _

There is a long silence, with only Claire’s anguish projecting outwards. Then:

_ I … I honestly don’t think she could make it without him. _

If Makael hadn’t stopped, hadn’t begun to think things through before interacting with Claire, this would have made the perfect moment for her to reveal herself. Paint herself a hero: “I can help you find your father.  _ You just have to say ‘yes’ _ .” 

But now she  _ has  _ thought about it. 

And she realizes that  _ this  _ Claire Novak’s life is probably a hell of a lot better than the life she has in Makael’s timeline. 

Both her parents are alive. She’s living in the same house she grew up in. If the books on her desk are any indication, she’s following in her father’s footsteps and taking a degree in business administration. She’s going to  _ college _ —not hunting monsters. Not grieving the loss of her father  _ and  _ her mother  _ and  _ the girl she fell for. She’s not hard or edgy—not much, anyway—she’s still sleeping with a  _ teddybear,  _ for goodness’ sake. 

So how can Makael possibly justify asking for her help?

It’s at this exact moment that Claire whispers into the darkness, “Who are you? I … I can … see you next to the window.”

Makael finds herself paralyzed, completely frozen in space. 

_ No. Claire should  _ not  _ be able to _ —

Unless Makael’s accidentally let down her little “do-not-see-me” bubble that she’d first learned to erect after she Fell. Because she’s distraught. Because she’s distracted.

Which turns out to be exactly what’s happened. She stopped holding the “do-not-see-me” bubble in her consciousness somewhere around the putting-the-teddybear-on-the-pillow part, and now she’s kinda-sorta-seeable: dimmed from her normal radiance, but visible to human eyes.

She is  _ really  _ sucking at all this OG angel stuff. 

“Are you … are you here to answer my prayer? Are you an angel?” Claire’s voice is tentative, with an edge of fear … and worse? Of hope.

_ Shiiiiiiiiit. Shit shit shit shit SHIT. _

There’s a long silence. Then a suspicious, “Are angels  _ supposed  _ to swear like that?”

Oh, fucking  _ hell.  _ She’s broadcasting again. And of  _ course  _ Claire can hear her, she’s from a chosen line. And why  _ wouldn’t  _ Claire be able to hear her when just about every-God-damned-one else can ever since Makael lost her vessel and her timeline and— 

“What’s a chosen line? And what’s a vessel?”

_ GODDAMN IT! _

Claire claps her hands over her ears, and the light reflecting in her eyes gets brighter as her they widen. Makael can hear it—the leftover whine of her non-corporeal voice, and it really is ear-piercing—just as she realizes that the light is actually brighter than it had been before because  _ her  _ light is reflecting back in Claire’s eyes, along with the light of the streetlamp. 

She’s tangentially surprised that Amelia isn’t already tearing down the hall in response to the piercing whine of Makael’s true voice, until she listens carefully and realizes that Mrs. Novak is lying in her bed listening to “Sounds of Nature” at full volume, trying to relax.

Which is exactly what Makael needs to do if she doesn’t want to scare the fuck out of Claire and send her off screaming into the night.

Or make her eardrums bleed.

So. Makael takes a moment and centers herself, all the while thinking how grateful she is that this Claire is _ this  _ Claire, not hunter Claire, because hunter Claire would probably have been yelling an exorcism by this point—or throwing holy oil and lit matches at her. 

She guards those thoughts carefully, not wanting to give  _ this  _ Claire any ideas, then forces calm over herself and says, “Claire, I’m Makael.” She projects the thought out as gently as she possibly can, and this time there is no accompanying whine of angelic sound—but she lets Claire see the shadow of her wings, a deeper darkness in the already night-pooled room.

If possible, Claire’s eyes get even larger. “You  _ are  _ an angel,” she whispers. “Holy  _ shit _ , I have an angel in my room.”

Not the most reverent way to say it, but Makael supposes she can’t blame Claire for swearing— especially not when she herself was screaming the very same profanity at high volume not thirty seconds ago. And—she glances back—yeah, she’d completely forgotten about how impressive her wings were before the Fall. But the little pang she feels at that is swept away when Claire starts speaking again. 

“Did …  _ did God send you _ ?  _ To help get my dad back? _ ”

The urgency in Claire’s voice is heartbreaking … and so is the fact that it would be so, so easy to lie to her. No wonder so many angels were able to find willing vessels so quickly after the Great Fall. Find someone desperate enough praying, and you can convince them of almost anything. Makael feels sick.

“No,” she says, softly but firmly. “No, God didn’t send me.”

She registers Claire’s shock at that, along with the quick unsteadiness that follows in its wake, so she pushes on before fear can take hold and Claire stops listening.

“I was already looking for you when you were praying, though, and I heard your prayer. I  _ am  _ an angel, and I’m looking for another angel—who I believe has your father.”

“ _ Has  _ my … what do you mean? You make it sound like … Has it kidnapped him or something?”

“No. He didn’t kidnap him. A human vessel can only be taken over willingly.” She feels Claire’s confusion, feels her mind stumble over the term “vessel” again, and she backtracks. “Okay. So, Claire, angels are a little bit different than what you may have been taught in Sunday school. You see, we do populate heaven. But up there, we don’t have bodies. We’re just … non-corporeal beings.” She skips the whole multidimensional wavelengths of celestial intent part. That’s probably too much information, and it feels a bit extraneous to the current conversation, even if it  _ is _ one of her favorite phrases to say out loud. “When we come to earth, however, we need a human host in order to be able to interact with the world. Most humans? They’re not like you. They can’t hear us in this form. We can’t communicate in any way with the majority of the human population unless we’re  _ inside  _ another human: what we call a vessel.”

Claire’s been listening, taking it all in with a strangely fierce and hungry calm, until this point. Now the fear hits her. “That … that’s not how angels work,” she says, softly. “That’s how  _ demons  _ work. You’re … you’re describing  _ demon possession _ .” Makael can hear Claire’s heart speed up, can sense the sweat starting to rise on her skin. 

“No.  _ No _ , Claire. I am not a demon. A demon could take over your body without your consent. I’m an angel. I need consent.  _ All  _ angels need consent in order to reside in a human body.” The fact that that consent can be obtained through blackmail or other fraudulent means? She decides to skip that part, too. 

“So … so you can’t  _ make _ me your vessel?” asks Claire, her voice tremulous in the quiet of the bedroom.

“No. Not unless you give me permission.”

“And you think my dad gave … permission to another angel?”

“Yes.”

“Why would he do that? Why would he leave us?”

Fuck. Fuck, this is heartbreaking. “The angel … might not have been completely honest with him about the reasons he’s needed.”

“Angels can lie?” Claire’s eyes round in the dimness of the room.

“Yes, we can.”

“Then how do I know you aren’t lying to me right now? How do I know you’re even looking for my dad, or the angel who took him?”

“You don’t. I … I can’t make you trust me. I just hope you’ll let me explain why I need your help.”

“Why him? What makes you think an angel took  _ him,  _ of all people? I mean, the angel you’re looking for could have taken any human as a … as a vessel. I know my dad is very religious, but—”

“No. Not every human can be a vessel. Most humans are not strong enough to house us.” Makael decides to  _ also _ skip the part about exploding vessels for now. “It’s only certain humans who can contain an angel.”

“Is that what you meant about chosen lines?”

“Yes.”

Claire brightens slightly at this. “Do you mean … does that mean we’re special? That God picked us?”

She doesn’t have lungs, but Makael lets herself  _ think  _ the sigh she would be making right now if she had a vessel. “That’s what we were told. That’s what most of us believed. That you were special, that you were chosen by God. And so that’s what we told the humans who could be our vessels. And … and, honestly, God must have had some role in it all, at some point. I mean he  _ did  _ make everything in creation. But …  _ God _ didn’t choose you or your father for anything.  _ Castiel _ chose your father simply because he was a fitting vessel, and Castiel needed a vessel. I think … I think that your family may actually be a line that he’s used before. It—it runs in families, you see, and I have reason to believe that he may have used your great-great-grandmother as a vessel back in 1901.” She’s never actually asked Castiel about it, but the vessel he used to hunt down Lily Sunder’s angelic husband—that raven hair, those piercing eyes—she could see the family resemblance to Jimmy Novak, and watching the episode had given her pause. Then she realizes that she’s rambling, telling Claire unnecessary information, and hauls herself back on topic. “So it makes sense that he would seek out a descendent now, for the sake of expediency.” 

“… expediency?” Claire echoes, her expression twisting.

“Yes.” It’s brutal, but it’s the truth, and somewhere along the line she’s decided that she can’t lie to Claire. 

There’s a long, silent moment as Claire’s entire face hardens. “What does he need a vessel for, exactly?”

And now they’ve come to the crux of it all. “He was ordered to earth to go look into a … disturbance. And now I think he may be trying to kill my friends.”

Claire stares into the spot where Makael is hovering, her gaze slightly unfocused, unable to truly take in Makael without a body. “He wants to kill other angels?” Her voice is flat, even though she’s asking a question.

“No—he wants to kill humans.”

“He wants to … angels  _ kill  _ humans?”

Makael feels sick, even as she says, “Yes.”

There’s another long pause. Then, “But you have human friends?”

“ _ Yes. _ ” And now Makael has to calm herself down again, because the low angelic whine is back, and Claire just winced. “Yes, I do.”

“And … does that mean that Castiel is your enemy?”

“No … Possibly? It’s very complicated.”

“No, Makael. It’s not complicated at all.  _ Are you going to hurt my dad to try to save your friends? _ ”

The fierceness is back, and Makael is impressed despite herself. Yes, this Claire may wear pink pajamas and have a teddybear to cuddle with at night, but the spark of who she is? That fierce spark is still there. And she’s put together the pieces with impressive speed.

“I won’t hurt your father,” she says, solemnly. “I promise.” A pause, then, “But it  _ is  _ complicated. May I show you?” Because all of it will take forever to explain, and … and honestly, she’s not sure at the end of it if Claire will just tell her to fuck off, but she needs to know one way or another, and she’s  _ not  _ going to lie to her. 

“Show me?”

“Yes. If you let me, I can show you everything that you need to know, rather than just speaking to you, the way I am now.”

“You can project images into my head, not just words?” 

“Yes.”

“Then show me.”

So Makael does. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ 

By the time Makael is done, Claire is sobbing—soft gasps stifled by the back of her hand.

“How can you ask me to do this?” Her words are stuttering, barely comprehensible, but they strike Makael like a blow. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, sorrow flooding through her. She drifts back slightly from the bed. She’d found herself moving toward it, almost without thinking, driven by the impulse to comfort Claire. Even though she was fully aware that she’d been the one who just caused her pain.

“Sorry?” Claire’s voice is hushed and shaking. “_Sorry?_ How can you say you’re sorry when you’re asking me to lose my mom and my dad and_ everything_ _I love_?”

Makael starts to answer, but Claire keeps going.

“And how can I say no, when … when you’ve shown me all the people they’ve saved? This Sam and Dean? All the people who will  _ die _ if I say no?”

“All the people  _ you _ will save, too. Including them.” Makael says it, even though she hates herself for saying it.

“It’s not fair!” The words are spit out like venom, and Makael flinches.

No. No it’s not. It’s not even remotely fair, and she hates herself asking this of Claire. She feels like a monster for asking her. 

Unbidden, a memory flashes through her consciousness. It’s a memory of Dean.

He’d plunked himself down onto the seat at the kitchen table opposite her a couple of days after her arrival from Kansas City. She’d been been staring into space, holding her coffee—full of cream and sugar—without drinking it, until it had gone cold.

“Hey,” he’d said, fixing her with his green eyes. “I wanna talk to you.”

She’d said nothing, continuing to stare off in vaguely the direction of the opposite wall.

“Cas told me about what happened to you in Kansas City,” he’d said, after a moment.

That got her focus. How had he known she’d just been thinking about it all? Again. For the millionth time. She glanced at him for a moment, then lowered her eyes to look at her cold coffee.

“He said you were having a hard time with it. With the people you couldn’t save.”

“It’s not that I just couldn’t save them, Dean,” she’d said, her voice sounding harsh even to her own ears, “it’s that I  _ killed  _ them.”

“You killed monsters, Em,” he said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. “They weren’t human anymore. And they would have turned more if you hadn’t stopped them.”

“I should have found a better way. A better option. A way that would have saved them.” She’d put her mug down, slowly, with great care. Then she looked Dean in the eye. “I failed those people. That’s just factual, Dean.” She’d hated the tears that stung her eyelids, even though she managed to keep her voice steady. “If I knew more—if I had more experience, more training, I could have—” 

Dean had interrupted her. “Em, I’m gonna tell you something important. Something you need to hear, and take in.” Dean paused. “You listening?” 

When she started to nod, dully, he shook his head.

“No, I mean,  _ really  _ listening.”

She frowned, but nodded at him. He gave her a tired smile in response, and went on.

“ _ Sometimes there are no good options. _ Only choosing between the least shitty of ‘em all.” 

Makael stared. “But—” she began, but he was already shaking his head again.

“No buts, Em. Listen to me:  _ sometimes there are no good options. _ ” He waited a beat, then said, very, very gently, “This was one of those times.”

For some reason, that gentleness was what made the tears spill over. The room blurred in her vision, and she’d found herself taking in great, shaking breaths. And suddenly there was a warm arm curving around her from her right, and she’d realized that Dean had slid into the chair there, moving from across the table to sit beside her. 

She’d found herself choking out a name. “Karen.” She’d said it again. The teenage girl in the pretty green dress. Christmas green. She’d watched, again, in her mind’s eye, as Karen’s head land with a thud on the grey stone floor: the slightly surprised expression on her face, her mouth working, twitching as her teeth became blunt again. Human again, just like her eyes—as the last spark of life faded from them.

Dean’s arm had tightened around her. “Tell me,” he’d said in that same very, very gentle voice. 

It took her a while to get the words out, and by then he’d grabbed a roll of paper towels that she could use as tissues, wrapping her back up tight in that one-armed hug as he slipped back down next to her. 

There was a silence after she was done. Then he’d said, finally, “You can’t play the ‘what-if’ game, Em.” At her confused look he went on, “What if I’d had a better weapon? What if we’d asked someone else to join us, or if I knew this bit of lore back then? What if we’d gone in the front door instead of the back? What if I’d thought to ask … whatever I should have asked?” He sighed, wearily. “All those ‘what-ifs,’ Makael? In this line of work,  _ they’ll kill you _ .” She’d straightened, going slightly rigid at that. “Let me ask you this: did you do the best you could? The very best? You didn’t slack off or go in thinking, ‘Well, I’ll save some of these people but, you know, if I lose a few of ‘em, oh well,’ right?”

“Of course not.” Makael was shocked out of her sniffles, but the corner of Dean’s eyes crinkled in a smile at her expression.

“Right. Didn’t think so. So, you did your best, then? The best you could manage in that moment?”

“Yes.” Her voice was very small, and raised up in pitch at the end, almost as if it were a question.

“Yes, you did.” From his lips, it was a fact. “And that’s all you could have done. You can’t do more than your best. And you’ve gotta take the comfort you can in that you tried—you tried your absolute hardest. I know that’s not easy to hear, Em, but that’s the only way you’ll get through this.”

Makael had blinked, and a few more tears had trailed down her face. “It’s not fair,” she’d whispered, heartbroken.

“Nope. It’s not.” The arm around her had given her a squeeze. “So I’ll say it again: s _ ometimes there are no good options. _ Only choosing between the least shitty of ‘em all.” He paused, slanting a glance down at her with those green eyes. “You got that?”

She’d given him a small nod. 

“Good.” Another squeeze, and then Dean had grabbed her cold coffee from the table. “I’m gonna make a fresh pot.” He’d paused, then his face brightened as he stood, and he threw a conspiratorial grin down at her. “That was a pretty good BM scene, right? I think we deserve some fresh coffee after all that heavy lifting.”

“BM scene?” She’d blinked at him.

“Oh, come on. I thought you’d said you’d watched all the shows. So you  _ have  _ to know about the BM scenes. By the Impala?” When she merely blinked again, he’d said, “Musicals? Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Oh.  _ Oh.  _ The 200th episode? With the  _ Supernatural  _ musical?”

“Yup. And …?”

“And … oh! The boy melodrama scenes!” She’d smiled in triumph as she’d remembered what he was talking about. Then she’d paused. “But I’m not a boy.”

“Well, I guess in this case, it’d be a boy-angel melodrama scene,” Dean had said, emptying her cold coffee in the sink and rinsing it out before he made his way over to the coffee pot and filled it up with fresh water, then dumped it in the back of the coffee machine and grabbed a filter. He paused as he chucked the used filter in the trash, swiping the coffee can from its spot next to the machine. “That would make it a BAM scene.” He chuckled. “BAM. Heh. I like it. I’ll have to tell Cas that one.”

Makael comes out of the memory with a start. She looks down at Claire’s tear-streaked face. “No,” she says, finally. “It’s not fair.”  _ Sometimes there are no good options. Only choosing between the least shitty of them all. _

She doesn’t say anything more.

There’s a long silence. Then, “I need you to promise me something, Makael.”

“What is it?”

“Let me say goodbye to my dad, if it’s possible. At all. If you’re able to convince this Castiel to … stop? To listen to you? I wanna speak to my dad. I know I won’t remember any of it if it works and you two are able to help Sam and Dean fix the timeline. But …  _ I need this. _ ”

Makael feels herself crumbling internally at Claire’s plea, sorrow sweeping through her with an intensity that makes her shiver. She forces her words to remain steady, however. “Of course. I’ll do everything I can to make sure that happens.”

“All right.” Claire wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. Her shoulders straighten, and her chin tilts back. “Then … yes.”

**END SCENE.**

**Notes:  
** I’m back!!! After a busy few months as I’ve been adjusting to a new job and building a new Supernatural podcast (The Fangirl Business) with one of my Twitter besties, @drfangirlphd, I’m back to writing The Angel Room series.

This one, honestly, was a tough one to write. There were a LOT of really complex dynamics surrounding the introduction of Claire to the storyline, and I didn’t want to skim over those complexities or diminish Claire’s ultimate decision to say “yes” in any way. Hopefully, that came through.

  1. **The Rapture:** In prepping for this entry in the series, I went back and rewatched S4Ep20, “The Rapture,” and in so doing realized that I had somehow missed it on my last rewatch. And damn, that episode is heartbreaking. Holy shit. It was good fuel for this entry, though, and I am hoping I captured a similar poignancy in this fic. “The Rapture” also made canon that Jimmy’s suitability as a host was passed down to Claire, which Makael would know from watching the show. That’s why she sought Claire out first as a potential vessel, knowing with certainty that she is suitable as a vessel. Makael also knows she will likely have to stop Castiel from whatever mission he’s on in Jimmy’s body, and hopes that Claire will have motivation to help her find her father.
  2. **Altered Timeline:** In this timeline, since the Apocalypse never happened, Castiel never needed a vessel and so Jimmy never said yes, Amelia never went searching for him, and Claire had a normal childhood. The Novak family, therefore, is still living in the home featured in “The Rapture,” in Pontiac, Illinois. 
  3. **Missing Jimmy: **A huge part of the motivation for this fic series surrounding “Lebanon” was to explore what Heaven would be like without the Apocalypse. I was incredibly fascinated by what they alluded to in the brief scenes with Zachariah and Castiel. But what was NEVER touched upon was that in this timeline, Jimmy Novak was suddenly missing—and I really wanted to explore the impact that would have on the Novak family, since we never did get a chance to see what his initial disappearance in S4 did to his family onscreen. So I’ve been really looking forward to exploring that in more detail.
  4. **Chosen Lines: **I was really, really, REALLY excited to touch upon the family link between Jimmy and the anonymous female vessel that Castiel took in 1901 in “Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets.” I mean, they couldn’t have picked a better actress to allude to SOME kind of genetic link between Jimmy and this woman: the dark hair, the incredibly blue eyes. And it’s something that’s never explicitly talked about in the series, although Sera Gamble (writer and showrunner) has talked about it in one of the DVD commentaries that I’ve watched (in regards to Michael’s female vessel in “The French Mistake”). So it was fun to play with making those links more explicit.
  5. **Claire’s Identity: **I also had a lot of fun thinking through what Claire’s identity might be at her current age as a non-hunter. I ended up visually referencing the initial actress who played Claire, Sydney Imbeau, and imagining a much less “messy” version of Claire: fresh-faced, straightened hair, following in her father’s footsteps by going to college, living at home. At the same time, the inner strength and fire that makes Claire who she is would still be there, so I wanted that to come across, too (hopefully that is apparent in her prayers and her interactions with Makael). Finally, I wondered a lot about whether or not Claire would be out to her very religious parents. I tried to show some of the tension that might be inherent between her sexuality and her family’s beliefs in the setting of the room: posters with scripture hanging side by side with a poster of LP, a gay, gender-neutral singer. And the rainbows on her pajama pants weren’t a coincidence, either. :) Whether or not she is out, I leave up to the reader.

Okay, that’s it! Hope you enjoyed!


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